


No Breath Left In Him

by loubuttons



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Arthur is bad at expressing emotions, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Descrition of Wound, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Lancelot (Merlin) Lives, Merlin and Arthur are platonic soulmates, No Slash, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Arthur, Protective and Supportive Lancelot, Supportive Gwen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 21:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15252801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubuttons/pseuds/loubuttons
Summary: When Arthur finds Merlin has been hiding a life-threatening injury, he’s forced to confront just how much he needs his manservant and consider how far he’ll go to save him.





	1. 1 Kings 17:17

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of part one of No Breath Left In Him. I was inspired by how ridiculous it is that Arthur never sees all of Merlin’s horrible injuries — from broken bones to poison. This was also written a year ago, and had never been beta’d. Forgive me for Arthur’s existential rambling.

“ _...and his sickness was so sore, that there was no breath left in him.” 1 Kings 17:17 _

 

Arthur was seething. The useless, lazy, incompetent  _ louse _ he called a manservant was nowhere to be found. This was only the latest offence in an extensive series of failings that day. The king wasn’t woken until nearly noon, which made it impossible for him to eat breakfast, if he wished to oversee knights training. When he returned, exhausted and drenched in sweat, his meal was lukewarm and his goblet never refilled. His chambers were in a state of disarray. Merlin, who claimed to be remedying this, performed his chores pathetically. Almost everything was left undone, and what was completed was a poor excuse for what was expected of him. 

 

In addition to these errors, Merlin was quiet. His snarky, nearly-treasonous remarks never came, while his glassy eyes stared into the distance. Even when asked a direct question, he seemed unable to focus. As Arthur opened the curtains in his gloomy chambers, the servant shied away from the light. Shuffling feet as he walked, he made his way to a dark corner to complete the simple task of folding a shirt. The man could barely move his stiff limbs in order to put away his cleaning supplies. Arthur could draw only one conclusion from these instances: The fool was hungover. Punishment was in order for his manservant, for being so foolhardy as to drink, when Arthur had specifically forbidden him from darkening the Rising Sun’s door again. As usual, he was clearly being far too gracious by not immediately firing him. 

 

Additional chores were added to his workload, which the king justified by telling himself that Merlin deserved it. But Merlin couldn’t seem to find the humor in this, or even summon the effort to be angry. He had only sighed, bowed weakly, and left. After almost an hour, Arthur was beginning to wonder guiltily if he had given his manservant too many tasks. Perhaps Merlin was ill, and simply couldn’t complete his job effectively. Perhaps he had been kept awake late into the night aiding one of Gaius’ patients in his absence. Logically, Arthur hid his guilt by angrily storming down the halls of his castle yelling Merlin’s name. When he reached the physician’s  chambers, he purposely neglected to knock, in order to catch Merlin in his lazing about. 

 

At first, Arthur didn’t quite understand the scene before him. A young man perched on Gaius’ work table, twisting at the waist to treat the infected gash in his back. The man looked remarkably like Merlin, with his black hair, pale skin, and slight frame. It couldn’t have been Merlin, however, because he had been with Arthur all day, and certainly wasn’t injured before. No one could hide a wound severe as that, much less a weakling like him. 

 

But it  _ was _ Merlin, with his shirt off to exposed the festering wound to the open air. He was attempting to treat himself with salves, medicinal leaves, and water. However, he couldn’t see what he was doing, because his wound began on the inside of his shoulder blade, extending down about five inches. Appearing to be badly infected, the cut was deep and weeping. Sweat dotted his fevered brow, as he attempted to clean the wound, but he was only straining the inflamed skin without accomplishing his goal. Soiled bandages lay next to his hip beside new, sterile ones. 

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Arthur exclaimed, almost outraged. Comprehension was nearly beyond him, while gaping openly at his manservant.

 

Merlin hardly acknowledged him. “What does it look like?” The exertion of twisting, of straining was clear in his voice, but he refused to so much as glance up. 

 

“It looks like you’ve somehow managed to hurt yourself and are now making it worse!” Gesturing wildly in Merlin's general direction, Arthur couldn’t seem to calm the panic settling in his mind.

 

“Yes,” Merlin grunted out. “Of course, that’s it. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind passing me that poultice there?” 

 

Although Arthur could tell Merlin was disconcerted, he seemed to be attempting to cover it with nonchalance. It was a bit ridiculous, the way he wouldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, or cease worrying over his wound. He did need treating, desperately, but Merlin simply couldn’t manage it himself. The fluids oozing from his shoulder down his back made Arthur’s stomach turn. Despite his usually high tolerance around wounds -- even horribly infected ones -- there was something particularly disgusting about this one. Just watching his manservant drag the rough, damp rag across its edge made his own shoulder twinge in sympathy. As he stood watching the sickening scene, Arthur deduced exactly why he was so disturbed. It was the fact that this was  _ Merlin’s _ mutilated skin. Kind, pathetic, defenceless, stupid, utterly useless  _ Merlin _ , should never be in pain. He should never be sat on a physician’s table afflicted by fever and septic. It felt as if a part of Arthur himself ached, burned with fever alongside him. The fact that he had also tried to solve this issue completely alone made Arthur grind his teeth in frustration, while gazing mutely at Merlin’s back. 

 

“Arthur?” Merlin’s quiet voice broke through the king’s daze. Slowly, he realized Merlin had stilled, and stared at him with concern splayed on his face. The idea of Merlin worrying for him made anger bubble in Arthur’s throat irrationally. While Merlin sat, seemingly unaffected by what must have been excruciating pain, it was simply wrong for him to care how Arthur felt at that moment. It didn’t matter if he felt absolutely appalled, or wanted to vomit and perhaps cry, because Merlin was the one in danger. And yet, when he pushed the anger away, he found Merlin’s concern was needed and welcomed. It grounded him, gave him the strength to push forward.

 

“I’m fine,” he replied stoutly, marching stiffly to retrieve the poultice Merlin asked for. 

 

Merlin thanked him softly. Taking the foul-scented mixture out of Arthur’s hands appeared to be a challenge for his manservant, because of the trembling in his own. Pitifully, Merlin gazed at the poultice with a slight frown on his face, as he considered how he would apply it to his own back. The fact that he never thought to ask for Arthur’s assistance made his chest constrict, but he ignored it. Whether anger or hurt touched him, he could not have said, but such unruly emotions had no place in his mind just then. 

 

“Give it here, you absolute fool.” he sighed, leaving no room for argument, when he reclaimed the pestle and mortar. He pointedly ignored Merlin protests, and sat behind him so Merlin’s back faced him. Taking a moment, he washed his hands in the bowl of clean water that sat on the table next to them. Slowly, methodically, he cleaned every finger, refusing to let the smallest speck of dirt grace his skin. When he had finished drying them on his pant leg, he knew he couldn’t put off helping any longer. In a moment of rare restraint, Merlin endured in silence, seemingly at a loss for words. 

 

Arthur dipped his fingers in Merlin’s pre-prepared paste and gently applied it to the wound’s shallowest edge. Merlin tensed, but Arthur instructed himself to pay this no mind. This needed doing, he reasoned, and when it was done, he would never have to hurt Merlin like this again. The paste was thick, smelling strongly of garlic, honey, and a dozen other things Arthur had come to associate with Gaius’ tower. Although Merlin’s weeping wound twisted his stomach, Arthur forced himself to look, in order to dress it well.

It was even more disgusting up close, with jagged edges and thick, curling pieces of skin. As Arthur had earlier ascertained, it was a deep cut about half an inch wide and as long as his hand. The skin around it was red, shining, and tight. He scooped more paste with his fingers, spreading a thick layer over the gaping wound. Merlin had a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the table, which Arthur tried to disregard. Even then, neither uttered nary a word. 

 

The idea of Merlin being in pain, yet not telling anyone, choked him. Rationally, Arthur knew that Gaius must have been aware of Merlin’s condition, because someone had dressed the wound previously. However, Gaius had been treating fever in the lower town since the morning before, which meant Merlin must have been without aid for at least two days. Glancing at the soiled bandages next to him, Arthur shuddered at their foul smell. Merlin had probably left them far longer than was healthful, because he couldn’t properly address the wound himself. 

 

“You could have told me.” Hating how small his voice was, Arthur forced the words out around the lump in his throat. 

 

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Merlin answered, his voice equally soft, but unwavering. Somehow, amidst fever and pain, he remained controlled — more stoic in the face of burning agony than even the bravest of knights. 

 

A coarse laugh that he couldn’t stifle bubbled through Arthur’s lips. “You never could come up with good excuses,” Where Merlin couldn’t see, an ugly smile flitted around the corners of his lips. A tense silence followed his accusation, while Merlin tried to not come off the table in pain. Arthur had reached the deepest portion of the wound, and knew that no matter how gentle his fingers were, he could not keep from hurting his friend. 

 

“Did you think I wouldn’t care?” Arthur asked, his voice low, vulnerable.

 

“No, you buffoon--” Merlin gasped through gritted teeth. “I just -  _ ah! _ \- thought you had enough to deal with as it is! What are you trying to do, punish me?!” 

 

While the fallacy of Merlin’s logic washed over him, he gripped Merlin’s other shoulder to hold him in place. Firmly, he forced him to remain still.“Someone should!” Vulnerability vanished, he barked out harsh words, “You’ll kill yourself one day with that stupid head of yours. I can spare a second to lessen your duties!” 

 

“Well, excuse me for being concerned for my king!” Merlin struggled in vain against Arthur’s hold. Rationality and stoicism vanished, he struggled weakly to escape. 

 

Arthur in turn strengthened his grip, grabbed Merlin around his waist, pinned his arms, and dragged him backward. This ceased his flailing and brought him closer to Arthur’s probing hand. If Arthur had had a choice, he would’ve willingly let Merlin squirm away from the pain, but he would only hurt himself further. They had only about an inch left, which Arthur would cover with a cloth and additional bandages. Merlin could choke down some awful tonic for the pain, and then rest. However, none of those things could happen, if he didn’t hold  _ still _ . 

 

“So just because I’m king, I don’t care about my friends?” They were yelling at each other now, a flurry of emotion translating smoothly to anger. Although Arthur was practically hugging Merlin from behind at that point, all he wanted was to strangle him, while simultaneously ensuring he was never hurt again. 

 

“I never said that, you bull-headed, toad-faced, son-of-an- _ ass _ !” 

 

Neither of them addressed Arthur’s claim that he and Merlin were friends. 

 

“Then enlighten me, Merlin, because I simply don’t see wh--”

 

“Sire!” 

 

Quick as a whip, Merlin’s head snapped up to take in Leon’s stunned face. He had stood in the doorway, unnoticed by the king or his unwilling patient for several moments. After a brief pause to process the scene before him, the knight made himself known. Arthur paid him no mind, focusing on the task at hand, but Merlin struggled even more fiercely.  

 

“What is it, Leon?” he gritted out, ignoring Merlin’s squacked protests. 

 

Awkwardly, Leon seemed hesitant to answer, as he watched Merlin attempt to twist and bite his king.“Um, pardon me, my Lord, but the Council requests your presence,” 

 

“Inform the Council that my services will be indisposed for the next hour, but I will see to their concerns shortly -- Merlin, if you do not  _ stop it _ , I will sedate you -- and ask that a full report be drawn up of what transpires in my absence!” 

 

Leon was all too eager to flee, hastily bowing to a King who would not spare his attention from his struggling manservant. When Leon was absent, Merlin, clearly exhausted, stilled. 

 

“Why do you care, if Leon knows you’re injured, you fool?” Arthur demanded, still attempting to wrestle Merlin into a better position. Little had been achieved in the past few minutes, aside from Merlin wearing his fevered body down even farther. 

 

His voice was quiet, almost ashamed, when came his mumbled answer.“I can’t bear people worrying, if there’s no need,”  

 

“There is a need, Merlin,” Arthur admonished him tightly, spreading the last of the wound with the poultice. 

 

“I can take care of my own affairs; an injury like this is hardly cause for concern, especially for you.” he scoffed, as if this gash were merely a scratch. 

 

Small bursts of hurt and shame burned through Arthur chest. What had he done to make Merlin think his attention should be focused at all corners of his kingdom, aside from what rested directly under his nose? How had he wounded the man cradled in his arms, that even a fevered brow and rent skin did not warrant concern? What else had he hidden from his king through a carefully constructed mask to hide his pain?  

 

Words that he hardly wanted to consider escaped his dry mouth before he could halt them. “This could kill you, you know,” 

 

All energy seemed to seep out of Merlin’s bones, at Arthur’s rushed comment. “I know,” He sounded merely tired, ready for whatever he might face. 

 

Behind him, Arthur blanched at his resigned tone. Even as he wet a strip of clean bandage, anger made his hands shake. He delicately pressed it to Merlin’s shoulder, quickly securing it with dry, longer strips. At a loss for words, he stewed in silence, while treating his equally silent patient. Soon, Merlin’s shoulder was swathed in rough white cloth. Slowly, still fuming, Arthur sat back, removing his arms from around his friend. 

 

Although the job he set out to do was finished, Arthur continued to quietly fuss over him. Using the same rag Merlin had been using to clean his wound, after washing it, Arthur methodically bathed Merlin’s back. Milky fluids that Arthur certainly didn’t have a name for had run out of the wound and become sticky on his back. Neither of them addressed Arthur’s gentle, warm hands, which hardly seemed at a loss for things to do. Once Merlin was clean, the king stood. He knew where Gaius kept his foul painkillers, and set out to secure some. Never looking back to Merlin’s careful, watchful gaze, Arthur rummaged around the dusty shelves. He was searching for a particular brew, which Gaius only gave him when he was seriously injured. It tasted strongly of spice, peppermint, ginger, horseradish, and several other thing that should never be blended together. 

 

When he secured his prize, Arthur turned again to Merlin, who sat slumped on the table. Remaining upright seemed to be a struggle for him, but he continued to stare at Arthur with unwavering and piercing blue-grey eyes. 

 

“Drink this,”  It was not a suggestion, yet Merlin waited until his king met his eyes before extending his cold hand to accept Arthur’s offered remedy. 

 

He screwed his face into a grimace, when Gaius’ medicine graced his tongue, but made no comment. On another day, Arthur would have laughed at his childish reaction, but he could hardly bear to look at Merlin then. The need to make sure he was alright overwhelmed the urge to yell at him, but only just. When had Merlin become the needlessly silent martyr? Where had he gotten the notion that it was better to suffer without support, than to ask for help? As per usual, Arthur thought it appropriate to translate his confusion and guilt to anger. It was a bad habit of his, one that he had partly overcome -- it only made reappearances when Merlin was involved.  

 

He was stood glaring at the floor, when Merlin’s soft, confident voice cut through his brooding. “I’m alright,”

 

Rolling his eyes, Arthur snorted. “No thanks to yourself,” 

 

“I can take care of myself,” Merlin pouted, eyes glazed. As if trying to prove his point, he unsteadily rose to his feet. Arthur narrowed his eyes, ready to assist him if he was needed, but Merlin simply straightened on shaking legs. When he gifted Arthur with a bright smile, something uncomfortable twisted low in his stomach. 

 

Arthur recognized that smile. That was Merlin’s  _ smile _ , bright and blazing as the noonday sun. That was a smile Arthur trusted. But if that was Merlin’s smile day by day, was he faking his smiles constantly, or was he genuinely pleased through his fever and pain for some odd reason? Annoyed, Arthur scowled. He wasn’t supposed to have to doubt Merlin of all people, Merlin was an open book. Even when he lied, he always tripped over his own fool tongue. He never hid anything, and this one incident wasn’t a common occurrence, Arthur told himself.  If he had any sort of control of the man stood in front of him, that man would never hide again. And no matter how much they both denied it, Merlin would always, in the end, do as Arthur asked. 

 

“Sit down, you idiot, before you exhaust yourself any further.” Hard as he may have tried, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to remain angry any longer. Bemused, Merlin rolled his eyes, and began shuffling toward his own chambers. 

 

“I’m not that fragile,” The way he held one arm loosely around his stomach and extended the other in front of himself belied his claim. With every step he swayed, but continued on slowly. Never one to coddle others, Arthur followed closely behind without offering assistance. Once, Merlin’s knees buckled. Before he could catch himself on the table, Arthur was at his elbow, supporting him around waist. Gaius’ small chambers had never felt bigger, as they slowly struggled to Merlin’s room. It was a testament to how poorly Merlin felt, that he did not comment on Arthur’s help. He shook and his skin was sticky with sweat. Every inch of skin that Arthur touched blazed with heat, except for Merlin’s pale, trembling hand, which came to grasp his arm. 

 

When they reached the stairs, Arthur all but carried his charge up them; Merlin was too weak to climb them himself. Clearly dizzy, his head flopped back onto Arthur neck and shoulder, while his eyes became unfocused. The effort of walking so soon after his little episode on the table seemed to have drained him of what little energy he had. The king shivered in fear, as he gently lowered Merlin onto his bed. If Gaius did not return soon, Merlin might not survive. Arthur’s knowledge of infections was rudimentary at best. On the battlefield, he knew how to treat men, but only to elongate their lives in order to get them to a proper physician. Fear turned his stomach. Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed, as he panted out labored breaths. The men who died before they reached help looked remarkably like Merlin. Lucid one moment, gone the next. Trapped in fevered dreams through a haze of pain, some simply never woke up. If Arthur stayed there any longer, he knew he could never make himself leave. 

 

“Gwaine will be here to sit with you soon,” Arthur told him firmly, the only way he knew how to speak when frightened. 

 

Slowly, Merlin croaked “I don’t need a nursemaid,” 

 

“You do, Merlin,” replied Arthur, struggling to keep his voice even. “I’ll have him informed immediately.” 

 

As he opened the door to flee, to force himself to leave, he heard Merlin’s suddenly clear voice call. Reluctantly, he turned, unwilling to see Merlin’s wet brow and pained expression again.

 

“Arthur,” Eyes open, and voice quiet, Merlin held Arthur’s gaze. “I’ll be fine,” 

 

Voice caught somewhere he could not reach, Arthur took in his assured demeanor and ever-calm voice. Nodding once as he turned to leave, he told himself that he wasn’t going to say goodbye


	2. The Strong Wind

_ “Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away all but the things that cannot be torn, so we see ourselves as we truly are.” - Arthur Golden  _

 

All throughout his day, Arthur agonized over Merlin’s condition. As he left Gaius’ chambers, he informed a passing guard of his message to Gwaine. He intentionally avoided disclosing Merlin’s exact condition, instead directing him to summon Sir Gwaine on a matter of urgency to Merlin’s chambers. He knew how gossip spread, and refused to allow Merlin to become the center of unwanted talk. Where Merlin was involved, Gwaine would waste no time, even with so little information. Although Arthur was aware of the close bond Merlin also shared with Lancelot, he spared Lancelot the duty of caring for Merlin, because he provided more useful council than Gwaine. 

 

_ Later, _ Arthur told himself.  _ I will inform him later _ . Selfishly, he couldn’t face other's concern yet. 

 

Despite the knowledge that Merlin would be well looked after, the king could not help but worry. There was no help for it, but he felt foolish. More important matters should have been taxing his mind, and yet, he found himself unable to focus on Sir Kay’s report on the Southern borders. Absently, he gazed at the table as if it would ease the gnawing fear in his stomach. Until Guinevere gently squeezed his hand, his mind was far from his body -- it held a restless vigil in messy servant’s chambers. The warmth of her hand resting atop his grounded him, recalling his attention to matters of State. Grateful, he squeezed back, but did not meet her searching eyes. 

 

As soon as he was able, he dismissed his knights and councilors. Hastily, he excused himself from others company, in favor of stealing away to Merlin’s cramped quarters. Fortunately, his Queen did not follow, nor did any others attempt to capture his attention. Perhaps they recognized the single-minded care about him, the way his neck was arched purposefully. The silent retreat he performed would not be described as running through the castle halls, but only because Arthur would not have allowed it. The ceremonial red cloak he donned for Council billowed out behind him, leaving a trail like blood in his wake. Not for the first time, he silently cursed whichever steward had decided to place the physician’s chambers so far removed from the rest of Arthur’s usual route. He ducked into servant’s passages and around guards to shorten his journey, unconcerned with his less-than-kingly conduct. In the time it took him to climb the stairs of Gaius’ tower, his heart crept into his throat. It was not physical exertion that overtook him, but fear. An all-consuming fear, which clouded his vision and froze the air in his lungs. 

 

Arthur knew, remotely, what Merlin meant to him. He was the first and only friend Arthur had ever had, and possibly the one person Arthur could never doubt. When they first met, Arthur’s doubt was all that Merlin received, yet he proved himself true. After Merlin wormed his way into Arthur’s life, he found himself unable to live blindly. The struggles and grief of others were thrust upon Arthur, along with the bold expectation that he would do the right thing. No, perhaps not the right thing -- but the good thing, as Merlin would do. Over time, although it seemed sudden, the future he had once dreamed of distantly, became a reality. That future of equality that he longed for, with a servant as it’s queen, was won. Because of his insistent faith, nearly everything Merlin had promised him had come true. Upon consideration, Arthur knew why Merlin had been the one to cause such a change to the very core of his being. Never had he seen such loyalty or such love possess any one person. Oftentimes, the King staggered under the weight of both, unsure how to receive them. There was passion in every movement Merlin made, and on more than one occasion, Merlin had declared that his every action was for the benefit of Camelot. For the benefit of his king. 

 

Arthur knew, remotely, what Merlin had done. Silently, and without real complaint, Merlin transformed him. Molding Arthur into who he was meant to be, Merlin committed himself to service at Arthur’s side. In truth, the knowledge that Merlin had patiently changed him in order to make him the king he was, choked Arthur. Could he still be that man without him? If Arthur lost that which held him to Earth, forcing him to bloom, what would become of the man he was? The only man who had never failed him, never betrayed his trust, was constantly endangering himself needlessly. At times, when despair and loss closed around them, Merlin was the very driving force behind Camelot herself. If Arthur was his kingdom's heart, then Merlin was her soul, cradling the heart through trial. 

 

Arthur knew, remotely, what he could never admit. Merlin was the thing that constricted his chest, when he gazed out upon his subjects -- his never-ending pride. He was the thing that made him square his shoulders, when he discovered his kingdom was in danger -- he was his courage. When joy threatened to crush him, Merlin was the thing that made the load even more unbearable -- he was Arthur’s limitless love. Inevitably, Merlin had become the one thing Arthur had never expected him to be: Merlin was the only one who truly knew him. Because he had never been anything but  _ Arthur _ in Merlin’s eyes, unimpressive and unashamed, he could hardly waver in the light of Merlin’s open regard. The attachment he had developed was by all means foolish, but perhaps unavoidable in the end. 

 

When someone devoted themselves so wholly to something, all those around them knew of their devotion. That was what Merlin had done. Without personal regard or reserve he threw himself into Arthur’s service, supported only by determination and loyalty. It did not go unnoticed. Although he feigned ignorance, he knew of Merlin’s attention. As Arthur strained to separate himself from such passion in the beginning of their friendship, he only enticed it further. But after poison, fire, and sword persecuted him in rapid succession, he relied heavily on that stable dedication. No longer wishing to construct impenetrable walls, where not even Merlin could touch him, Arthur pressed back. Perhaps without the same open care, but his loyalty was earned, if only in private. Truthfully, Arthur needed Merlin because Arthur had to trust in someone, and Merlin was the only man who deserved it. Everything Arthur had ever needed, Merlin had been there to fill. 

 

But it could all be wrenched away from him, with one stupid mistake. Arthur's breath caught in his throat, as he reached the threshold of Gaius’ chambers. If Arthur had found him broken as he was before, he might’ve not been able to stomach it. Steeling himself, he again walked boldly through the door. When he found no one there to greet him and no sound coming from within, the king deliberated if that was a good thing. If Merlin slept, he would owe Gwaine his gratitude for easing his fear. However, if he found Merlin to be weak, burning, restless even in rest -- or worse, still, cold, suspended in death -- there would be hell to pay. The knowledge that Gwaine couldn’t have prevented Merlin’s passing had little bearing, in his mind. With as much confidence as he could manage, he strode to open Merlin’s chamber door. 

 

Once inside, Arthur felt air flood his lungs at the sight of him. Although his body was tensed even in sleep, steady, shallow breaths accompanied the rise and fall of his back. He was alive. Arthur stood transfixed by the sight of him. An unhealthy flush had risen to the cheek he could see and the other was pressed into his lumpy pillow. Arthur wondered whether pain or fear from dreams made vivid by fever cause Merlin’s rigidity, but his idle thoughts were interrupted by Gwaine. 

 

“Sire,” he acknowledged his king stiffly. Sprawling out in one of Gaius’ rickety chairs, Gwaine refused to spare even a glance in Arthur’s direction. Instead, his undivided attention was focused on Merlin’s flushed face. Despite his comfortable stance, his body -- and therefore his mind -- were far from relaxed. 

 

Reluctantly, Arthur turned to face him, prying his appraising eyes from Merlin’s fevered form. “Gwaine,” he replied in way of greeting. “Thank you for...watching him.” 

 

The words felt wrong, because Merlin wasn’t some sort of prisoner who needed observing, but that was exactly what Arthur had ordered Gwaine to do. It wasn’t as if Arthur could have left him alone. His fool of a manservant was sick. Without supervision, he would have continued to deteriorate until someone intervened. Perhaps that someone would have been an undertaker, but Arthur rather thought that not even death could pull Merlin away from the concerns of others. In Merlin’s mind, he would always come last, even if it meant his untimely and unnecessary death. Upon consideration, Arthur recounted his mental hesitation. Merlin  _ was _ a prisoner, who would be interned until Arthur granted him freedom again. 

 

“No need to thank me,” Answering with nary a twitch, Gwaine kept his voice low, so as not to disturb his temporary patient. “If I had known, we both know this where I would have been from the moment he got hurt,”  

 

For no reason at all, Arthur felt a small burst of pride. There it was: Merlin’s pull. It was the undeniable need to remain loyal to the one man who would never ask it of someone. This, he knew, touched each person who had witnessed Merlin’s clumsy charm, save those who adamantly refused to be affected by it. Those people harbored nothing but ill-hid hate in their hearts for Arthur’s manservant -- elderly counselors, senior servants, the last of his father's knights -- because Merlin succeeded where they had not. Merlin had earned Arthur’s trust and friendship, while they wasted away, hungry for power Arthur would never grant them.  

 

“Even so, I’m grateful,” 

 

At this, Gwaine’s eyes momentarily flicked to his. Uncomfortable, Arthur trained his gaze on Merlin’s hand, which rested near his cheek. Desperately, Arthur hope Gwaine wouldn't address the choked quality to his voice. Barely concealed vulnerability had laced Arthur’s tone, but neither would openly acknowledge it. Gwaine only nodded, and they lapsed back to silence. In the quiet, he became restless. As grateful as he was, Arthur couldn’t help but wish Gwaine would leave them. Because Merlin was asleep, and Arthur wanted him to stay that way, his desire to be alone with him was foolish. It wasn’t as if Merlin would be engaging him in riveting conversation. Truthfully, however, in times of strife, Arthur felt most secure, when it was only he and Merlin. He wanted to openly show his anxiety, but felt that with another present the mantle of King would need to remain upon his shoulders. 

 

Dragging his thoughts away from his discomfort, Arthur sighed inwardly. For once, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to use his position to influence the actions of others. Unless Gwaine became a hindrance, he would let him stay, because he knew what it was to worry over a friend. As a young knight, when his men were injured, he was not permitted to sit with them, or even inquire after their condition. His father had informed him that it was those men’s privilege to be wounded in service to their prince. There was no reason to display concern, because this was what these men’s lives were meant for. Therefore, Arthur was not allowed to care, because that, too, was a privilege. Coincidentally, being able to care was one of the only privileges not readily available to him. Princes and kings, however young, could not afford to care. 

 

Quiet forms of cruelty such as this had not been uncommon in his father’s kingdom. Throughout Arthur’s childhood -- or lack thereof -- he had been molded and shaped into...something. A warrior, his father might have said. A king. But Merlin had shown him that his father had made him neither of those things, effectively ruining the carefully fashioned child he was. His father had only made him coarse, selfish, and lonely. From a young age, he was taught how to isolate himself, even in the company of hundreds. A king, his father would have said, was above all others. A king could not have friends. A king was only concerned with his kingdom, and therefore only with himself. When Merlin stumbled into Arthur’s life, he showed him that he people were the kingdom, and therefore of the utmost importance, the same as those of noble blood. 

 

Because of this, yes, Gwaine would be allowed to stay -- but not for Gwaine. Partly, for the knight’s peace of mind, of course, but also so Arthur might experience one of those small sacrifices Merlin was always rambling on about. Clearly, Arthur knew what it meant to sacrifice something. His happiness had been forfeit from a young age, and only won back through the efforts of many. Despite protests, his health and safety were willingly given every day. Arthur would happily give everything he ever possessed to those around him, if it only meant they would be safe. But giving something small -- that was strange to him. Although his nature was selfless, he had been trained to be horribly selfish. As a child, and even a young man, he had been taught to take and take, but never to give. Only the goodness of those who refused to submit had shown him it was right to give small things too. He wanted to continue to unravel that mystery so that he -- and Merlin -- could be proud of the happiness caused in others though little efforts. If it would cause him some pain to let Gwaine remain, he would bear it. He would bear the pain happily, knowing that he had done so. 

 

After nearly four candle marks, Merlin still had not stirred. It would have appeared endlessly odd to an observer, if they would have happened upon on Camelot’s king and a senior knight simply watching a servant sleep, but Arthur refused to mind. There, in the privacy of Merlin’s chambers, quietly, he could just be Merlin’s friend. He could let himself care. 

  
  


The sun had just begun to set, when Merlin’s eyes drifted open. Gwaine had long since dozed away on his uncomfortable perch, and Arthur nearly the same, while leaning against the far wall. At Merlin’s low groan, however, he was instantly alert, striding to his bedside with apprehension heavy in his mind. Despite earlier episodes, Merlin’s eyes appeared clear, once Arthur was near enough to see them. 

 

“Arthur?” he slurred, his gaze fixed readily, if not also lazily, on his companion. Wisely, he refrained from moving, save his hand, which twitched weakly next to his cheek. 

 

“Yes, I’m here.” Answered the king, as he knelt beside his servant’s bed. This action was only due to how foolish he would have looked, if he had been seen standing over him instead of facing him, Arthur reasoned. A king could never look foolish. 

 

Deeply, he sighed, when Merlin’s lips twitched into something akin to a smile. “You total idiot,” 

 

“Is that any way to speak to an invalid?” Inquired Merlin, letting his eyes flutter closed. Sleepily, he hummed happily at Arthur’s answering snort. 

 

“You are far from an invalid.”

 

Raising his eyebrows, Merlin did not deign to look at his King. Instead, he shifted slightly, as if positioning himself for more rest. Indeed, even as he spoke, Merlin drifted further away from consciousness. 

 

“Oh, is that so, my Lord? Were you not preaching of my imminent doom just earlier today?” Merlin never seemed to lose his humor. Because he knew Merlin would not see, Arthur let himself smile openly. At times, only Merlin’s carelessly morbid words could force such a reaction from him, but Arthur was not about to acknowledge that Merlin succeeded in his clumsy efforts. Before he could reply, Merlin had succumbed to the sweet grasp of sleep. Nevertheless, Arthur continued on. 

 

“Yes, well, I must have given you the wrong impression. I expect you on your feet and well before the week is out,” Whether he believed his words or not was of no consequence; Merlin would be made healthy again. Truthfully, Arthur could not have begun to help him medically, but he would stop at nothing to ensure his safe return to where he belonged: By his king’s side. 


	3. Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can’t tell from this chapter, I’m a strong supporter of the idea that Merlin and Arthur are platonic soulmates. Maybe I’ll explore how exactly their souls are connected in part two.

_ “Things do not change. We change.” Henry David Thoreau _

 

Gwaine stirred soon after, but Merlin remained asleep. Because of the hour, Arthur sent him away. Someone would have to monitor Merlin’s condition through the night, but Gwaine was in no fit state to do so. Although he had spent the better part of his afternoon and evening simply sitting, he was emotionally worn. Despite his protests, Arthur knew it was a relief to escape the sight of Merlin lying so helplessly. 

 

Slowly, Arthur was adjusting to the idea of Merlin’s evident pain, but this allowed his mind to wander. Once his immediate panic subsided, he was faced with a more deep and chilling fear. Far greater disturbing prospects troubled his restless mind. No longer did he wonder why Merlin hid his pain, but where he had garnered such an injury. Even as he began to wonder if Merlin would last until Gaius returned, he began to worry if he would last through the night. Suddenly, every thought he had pushed away was staring him in the face, demanding his attention. Who would want to hurt Merlin? Such a thing could not have been self-inflicted. But what could that matter, if Merlin did not live long enough to give an account of his tale? Would Merlin even tell him the truth, if he could? Did Gaius know what happened to him? Why would he have left Merlin alone in his state? 

 

Answers could not be found in Merlin’s silent, horribly still chambers. Lit only by three candles, the room had begun to feel like a prison, a limbo where they would both be trapped until Arthur knew the truth. Finally, he sent word for Lancelot to be found immediately and brought to Merlin’s chambers. As before, his stomach turned at the thought of what might happen if he abandoned Merlin then; but he could hardly bear to remain. Arthur had forced himself to leave once, and upon returning found his friend in no better state than when he left. How could he return again, not knowing what scene might await him? When Lancelot arrived, brow creased with worry and eyes alight with more than idle fear, he was both welcome and dreaded. 

 

“I must go,” in carefully lowered tones, Arthur informed his slumbering charge, “But don’t expect me to allow this lazing about to continue on much longer. Remember our discussion earlier -- no more than a week, Merlin, or you will have much more to worry about than fever,” 

 

Without more than a nod to his knight, Arthur all but ran out the door. All would be forfeit, he thought, if Merlin was not safe. He still knew so little, he still had yet to become the king they had both hoped he would be. Anxiously, he knew with surety he would never become more than he always had been without Merlin at his side. Although he had already considered these things when he first arrived, he found it oddly fitting he should think on them again, as he departed. 

 

When he found himself outside the Royal Chambers, he felt unwilling to face Guinevere. The ache of knowing Merlin was in pain was no small burden to bear, and she would doubtless demand answers. No good could come of her feeling the same weight upon her chest that he did, he reasoned. Logically, he knew he could not avoid revealing why he had neglected that day’s duties, still he absently developed small stories to appease her. But he knew he would not lie, much as he might have wished to. As he entered their rooms, his gaze was drawn to the small feast waiting on their dining table. Despite his apprehension and stress, Arthur could not help but smile slightly. 

 

Guinevere waited at the table, too. Calmly, she regarded him without judgement or anger, but this did nothing to soothe his worry. What could he say, when he barely knew the truth himself? Slowly, and without words, he sat beside her at the head of their table. He trusted Guinevere, he trusted her strength, but hesitated to upset her. Although he knew she would not stagger under fear’s weight, he also paused to be the one who placed it upon her shoulders. Secretly, Arthur would later admit to Merlin that it was not fear for his Queen, but for himself -- to recount Merlin’s injuries was a terrible thing. Only one thought spurred him to open his mouth: If Arthur did not tell her, Lancelot would. Perhaps it would have been an easier thing for Arthur, but he knew he could produce no adequate reason as to why he had not revealed the truth himself. 

 

“I apologize for my absence this evening,” he began stiffly, “There were matters, which needed my personal attention.” 

 

Gently, he grasped her hand. She smiled softly, but her tense shoulders belied her concern. “You need not apologize, Arthur.” indulgently, she shook her head earnestly. “But what has called you away? Surely, Morgana has not made herself known so soon after--” 

 

“No,” Arthur broke in, his brow creasing. “No, nothing of the sort. There is, however…” 

 

“What is it?” 

 

Because her confusion had obviously only increased, and Arthur could think of no delicate way to address the situation they then faced, he simply sighed. “It is Merlin. He’s injured, perhaps fatally so, and I don’t know when Gaius will return,” 

 

Throughout his revelation his gaze remained locked in hers. To comprehend what he confessed was a terrible thing.  

 

“And you cannot send for him,” Guinevere surmised, steeling herself with a long, deep breath. Clearly, her mind was racing with questions and worry, much like Arthurs. Her eyes seemed to search the table before her, but saw nothing. 

 

Leaning back into his chair, Arthur regarded her with understanding, which lacked pity. Guinevere had known loss, terror, and pain just as the king himself. Once he had revealed his concern to her, he no longer felt reservation; the deed had been done, any damage already made. Only a fool refuses to recognize the strength of others, but only the truly blind do not fear hurting those they love. Neither a fool, nor a blind man, Arthur gently confirmed her fears. 

 

“If the same illness that he now treats had not taken so many last winter, perhaps I would hazard to entreat him home, but I cannot justify the potential cost. Unless Merlin’s condition greatly worsens, I must let Gaius return in his own time. Merlin would not allow it anyhow, certainly not for the sake of himself,” 

 

Glancing up to meet his gaze, Guinevere nodded. “No, of course you can’t. We will care for him,” She seemed to consider things for a moment, before asking the most pressing of questions, “What ails him, Arthur? You say he was injured, but how? I trust not even Merlin could be so clumsy as to mortally wound  _ himself _ .” 

 

For the first time since he left Merlin’s side, Arthur truly smiled, but only briefly. His next word sobered his countenance. 

 

“There is an infected gash in his back.” Sighing once more, Arthur met her somber gaze steadily, and found the words no more pleasant to say than to hear. “Clearly, Gaius tended to it before he departed, but Merlin neglected it, once left alone. In regards to the rest, I could not tell you. As you said, I seriously doubt even Merlin’s abilities to harm himself to this degree, but I haven’t found opportunity to question him yet.” 

 

Tiredly, he ran a hand across his face. “Honestly, I know very little -- only that he is weak and in a great deal of pain. His fever has not lessened, but Lancelot sits with him now to ensure he does not…pass in the night.” 

 

Just to say the words restricted his breathing momentarily. 

 

“Why would he not tell us?” Guinevere murmured, “Why not ask for help?” 

 

Inhaling sharply, Arthur leaned forward on his elbows. “I don’t know. He said he didn’t wish for unnecessary concern, but I should've  _ known _ .” Incredulous, he turned to his wife, “Merlin is…he is something that I cannot lose, Guinevere, and yet, I somehow was unable to see his pain.” 

 

“I do not pretend to understand the bond you share,” she returned with a soft smile, admiration and love shining on her face, “But I know it is something that cannot be rent or torn asunder. I know what you have done for each other, and what you would do. It is something that transcends ordinary life, Arthur, because you  _ do _ see his pain. Perhaps parts of him are concealed from you, but you see what makes him whole. You see  _ Merlin _ . You see something in him that I know I will never comprehend. Do not disregard that now,”  

 

Arthur considered her words for a moment. Outwardly, he showed no sign of change, yet he huffed a sharp breath, “You are wise beyond your years, my love,” 

 

Although his words were kind, he remained stiff and unmoving. After a few minutes of silence, he addressed his next confession to his steepled hands that he held centimeters before his face. “I…  _ cannot _ lose him, Guinevere. There is no cost too high, no price I would not pay,”   

 

He turned to her with fearful eyes, as if the depth of his devotion shook his ever-steady heart. “There is  _ nothing _ I would not do to save him,” his voice trembled, yet remained unwavering through his whispered claim. 

 

“Arthur,” Guinevere began, reaching to place her hand on his arm, “There is no reason why you shouldn’t protect him,” 

 

But the King knew there was more to his struggle than what she could see. In truth, he could not have really begun to express it himself. Obviously, Guinevere was shaken by the news of Merlin’s peril, as his knights had been, but Arthur was more than skaken. He was on the brink of destruction, clinging to what little rationality he had left. This was a love separate, and somehow more… calm than his burning passion for Guinevere. His care for Merlin rested placidly neath the surface of his mind, and he felt hollowed without him. This was something far more bewitching, so Merlin felt like a part of the King himself. 

 

No law of his father’s could tear Merlin away from him. Uther was dead, and his reign of fear ended. Arthur loved his father dearly, but in time he had come to see his illogical hatred, his blind terror. And although there was life left in Merlin yet, Arthur had already started considering how little he knew of the magic he once loathed; the magic that could save Merlin’s life. If that was what it would take, there would be no question. Magic would be welcomed with open arms, if that was what Merlin needed. 


	4. Goodnight

_ “Love to you, eternally. You are all brave and brilliant. Goodnight for now.” - Gerard Way _

 

In the following hours Arthur did not sleep, nor did he rest the next night. The next two days were spent about the castle, with only brief visits between the rest of his duties. But Merlin’s time was running short, and he had very few options left. His fantastical ideas of some grand healer coming to save his manservant had been a small comfort for a time, but reality had it’s cruel way with him. Quickly, Arthur saw the flaws in his vague plan. If, theoretically, he could even find a spell in order to heal Merlin, who would perform it -- one of the hundreds of Camelot citizens his father had executed? Any Druid that dared cross Camelot’s borders had shared their fate, so how would Arthur convince one to aid Merlin before it was too late? For all his hopes and all his dreams, Merlin was no closer to safety, and no one could bear the thought. 

 

“How is he?” Arthur had barely entered Merlin’s room, before his question flew from his lips. Despite his insistence upon seeing him earlier that morning, night had already begun to fall before he was able to steal away. The strain of waking to another servant, who accompanied him at meals and dressed him for the day, had taken it’s toll. Although much of the day’s allotted tasks had been completed, there were still villagers to hear come morning, and supper with a visiting lord. Such thing were only bearable with the addition of Merlin’s inappropriate jokes to soothe him. Merlin, he told himself, had better heal soon, because he could not endure another day without him by his side. 

 

Interrupted, Guinevere and Lancelot broke from their hushed conversation. However, Arthur didn’t need either to answer. There, in the suffocating confines of Merlin’s chambers, hung a heavy sort of fear. It grew and twisted everyday, so that it chased it’s king out into the castle halls. When his gaze locked upon him, he knew what they would say. 

 

Clenching his jaw, Arthur took stock of what he saw. Miserably, Merlin lay sleeping on his front. Perhaps it would have been too generous to claim that he slept. He was captured in some horrible dream, where pain haunted his every step, and fever corrupted his mind. If Merlin had appeared troubled in his rest on the first day Arthur found him, then he was clearly in agony two days later. He could not even find sleep on his own -- Lancelot had heavily sedated him, if only to make his days more comfortable. Sticky with sweat, his skin was overheated, and his injury grew increasingly worse. Soon, there would be nothing to do for him, but pray that he passed with little pain. 

 

Arthur did not need to hear Lancelot’s soft voice support the evidence captured by his own eyes, but he bore it in silence.

 

“Worse, Sire,” Lancelot answered solemnly, rising from his chair next to Guinevere, “I fear that he won’t survive the night,” 

 

“But Gaius should be here soon,” Guinevere supplied levelly, “It’s only a half-day’s ride from the village, and word was sent early this morning, Arthur. Merlin is strong, we’ve all seen it -- he’ll make it through this,” 

 

Although her reassurance was more than a small comfort, Arthur still felt as if he were suffocating. Glancing to the makeshift cot on the floor, he gathered that Lancelot had remained with Merlin through the nights. He had been allowed to stay, because Merlin had asked for him in his waking moments, although others protested. Jealously, he wished he could do the same, but there expectations placed on a king, which were knights were exempt from. Besides, he would drive himself mad with worry, if he were to stay with him at all time. A cruel thought pressed him, though -- Merlin sat outside his chamber, when his father died; Merlin rode with him to every battlefield; Merlin faced down a dragon for him. In the end, Merlin would never have left his side. Nodding stiffly to banish his internal disgust, Arthur attempted to regain some sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. 

 

“You’ll send for me with any change?” 

 

Guinevere, who had taken leave from some of her duties to ease the stress placed upon Lancelot, agreed. 

 

“Very good,” Taking up the mantle of a steadfast leader, as was his duty, Arthur simply stared at Merlin’s tensed shoulders, and they lingered in the silence. 

 

Visitors had come in Arthur’s absence, who bestowed gifts to the king’s dying manservant. Strewn about the room were fruits and grains and wool, but no one offered something to save him. Truthfully, there was none to place the blame upon, aside from his own father. In the days of magic, there could be charms, potions, and talismans; by then there was nothing to give. 

  
  


As midnight descended from its dark hiding place, Merlin’s breath turned to laboured wheezing. Still, Gaius had not returned. While time ran short, Arthur ordered a search party to be organized. Terrified and grasping for an out, he anxiously paced the length of Gaius’ workshop. What more could he do? Who could he petition to save his friend? Was there no escape from this gaping fear, which seemed to have no end. Hours ago, wife and knights alike had entreated him to his own chambers, but he would not be swayed. He would remain until Gaius was found, or he would never leave at all. 

 

_ “Someone must help him, Guinevere, and he is my responsibility. How can I leave him now?” He shook his head, as he stood with his arms crossed against his chest. Arthur gazed at the dusty floor, wishing that he was anywhere but trapped in a place he knew he couldn’t leave.  _

 

_ Sighing, Guinevere pressed him further sweetly, “But you  _ cannot _ help him. You’re no more physician than I. You can worry just as well, where you can get a good night’s rest. If you’re exhausted, you’ll be no use to anyone. And…” hesitantly, she continued, “Merlin is not your only responsibility,”  _

 

_ Before he responded, Arthur forced himself to fight back a wave of intense anger. Although she was correct, he couldn’t help but feel that this was where his focus should be. Logically, his attention or proximity would have no bearing on the outcome. In this battle, there was no enemy to fight, nothing to protect against -- save time. And how could Arthur, a man made to be a soldier, hope to fight that?  Yet, he forged on, because the alternative was too daunting of a thing, and continued to hold his ground.  _

 

_ “No, but without his mother or Gaius here, Merlin needs… someone. Lancelot is doing all he can, but he’s only one man. My kingdom will thrive with you at the helm, if only for a few days,”  _

 

_ Slowly, evenly, he held her warm stare, “I’m sorry for the burden I’ve placed on you, but this is where I need to be. Besides,” he fixed a crooked and teasing smile on his lips, “I could not sleep anyhow,”  _

 

_ Try as she might, an answering grin twisted the corners of her mouth, lifting the worry away from her eyes. “I suppose not. If he needs me, send for me,”  _

 

_ It struck Arthur then, that he was not the only one who wished to stay by Merlin’s side. Guinevere supported him silently, while longing to help her friend. But for all their sakes, she allowed Arthur his moment of weakness.  _

 

_ Smiling still, he stepped forward. Drawing her near, he curled his hands around her upper arms. In that moment, he saw their future together, with her as his steadying hand. They would be a glorious pair, and their lives would be rich; their kingdom full of life. Slowly, all of Camelot came into his mind’s eye, the world full of possibility. He could envision every second of their lives, and he would love her. Hope began blooming in his chest, for that is all love is -- a simple promise of overtaking hope, which cradles the soul. He knew nothing of how his soul was entwined then, and how easily his endless love could be crushed. Because if one’s soul is shared with another, -- their very essence divided -- how could one’s soul continue to love, if the other half is dead and all hope has died with them? _

 

After Guinevere had gone, only Arthur remained in the room just down the steps from Merlin’s. Leon and Gwaine had joined the men searching for Gaius, so Percival sat with Lancelot and Merlin. Lancelot, who had watched over Merlin for nearly two days straight, when he was struck by the Doracha, hated his own self-declared weakness. Unfortunately, he was only human, and needed sleep, but if Merlin woke, they all knew he would inquire after his friend. After they determined that Lancelot would be the one to stay with Merlin, he had specifically asked for Percival’s company. Because there was little to no space already in the cramped room, Arthur was left outside, much to his chagrin. The knight continued to slumber fitfully on the stone floor on Merlin’s chamber, hoping desperately for any reprieve. This wasn’t what Arthur and his men were meant for, and their agitation had started to reveal itself. 

 

Even so, it wasn’t simply irritation that had made Percival's voice rise to a steely shout and call out: “Sire!”

 

Panic made an icy home in Arthur’s chest. With shaking hands, he rushed to Merlin’s chamber doors. “What is it?”

 

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” 

 

Both knights were kneeling on either side of Merlin’s low bed, faces pinched with worry. The sudden change from distant anxiety about Merlin being in danger and that becoming a reality was staggering. Lancelot’s cheek was still imprinted with the fabric of his pillow. 

 

“Turn him on his side,” Arthur ordered, snapping into his role as commander in times of crisis. The room smelled putrid, the atmosphere chilling. 

 

Gently, they followed his command, careful of jostling their charge. As he made to stand or kneel beside his friend, the king nearly put his foot in a bucket of Merlin’s vomit, which he couldn’t help but find inwardly hilarious. This was a testament to the hysteria rapidly building in his chest. 

 

“There’s no change, Sire,” Lancelot intoned, fear clearly showing in his face. 

 

“Check again,” 

 

While he anxiously awaited their report, Arthur couldn’t tear his eyes away from Merlin’s lax face. Where once lay hope, and fear, and worry, and rage, there was simply nothing. In the unnatural absence of life, Arthur felt in his soul Percival’s stunned voice before he even spoke. 

 

“He’s gone,” 

  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was the end of part one. I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, and would like me to write part two, let me know with comments or kudos. Thank you for reading.


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